In Country

May 30, 2010: Camp Bastion, LSA Leatherneck, Headquarters IMEF


The twelve hour non-stop flight from Dulles to Kuwait was cramped. I cursed myself for not spending the extra $148 for a seat up forward with the extra five inches all around; won’t make that mistake on the trip home. The plane was packed with both US military and civilian contractors heading to both the Iraq and Afghan AOs. Most seemed to be seasoned travelers-well equipped with sleeping accessories, reading material, and extra food and drink.

Before the plane left the ground I’d exhausted the seat pocket literature; the airline’s periodical, the emergency instruction card and the in-air shopping magazine. A former wife thought I had ADHD, which a subsequent test refuted, but none-the-less I found myself sitting there desperate for stimulation. The gentleman sitting next to me, a Naval Reserve officer on his first deployment, was reading a book on computer language. My neck craning rewarded me with pages of unintelligible logarithmic equations and calculus matrixes….why couldn’t I at least be next to some enlisted kid perusing some soft-porn mag like FHM?

These six thousand-plus mile flights chasing the spin of the Earth always leave me completely disoriented with regards to time. Chasing the sunrise at over six hundred miles per hour somehow makes twelve hours seem like twenty-four. We arrived the next day, the 28th, around 1700 local time, and made our way through customs and immigration. My retired military ID card gave the Kuwaitis some cause for confusion, but in the end my passport was stamped and I was able to gather up my luggage.

Just as I was leaving Dulles Janis, my fiancé, realized she had Kuwaiti dinars in her wallet from one of her trips, in fact well over $260 dollars worth. With this money in hand, and a porter lugging my gear, I headed out of the Kuwait International Airport terminal building to the taxi stand designated for transport out to Ali Al Salem Air Base. A familiar wave of heat greeted me as I joined a civilian contractor in engaging a cab ride. By 1830 I was standing in the Military Air Terminal at Al Salem presenting my invitational orders to a transportation clerk, who in turn informed me that a flight to Kandahar was leaving in one hour, and that I would be on it. So much for being held up in Kuwait for a couple days.

The military flight to Kandahar was aboard a massive C-17. On this kind of flight you’re more cargo than passenger. Our “stick”, other than myself, was composed of two dozen fresh faced regular Army soldiers from a Germany based Stryker unit. For most this was their first trip to a war zone. In full body armor and helmets we sat strapped into our seats trying to find a place for our feet among the tie-down chains securing a line of massive CONEX boxes filing most of the cargo bay. The next four hours would be spent staring at those containers trying to decipher the stamps, markings and packing lists plastered all over them. One of the labels I found particularly cryptic. Every container had one and it stated in bold white letters on a blue background Lloyds Certified Container Schedule. Each container also sported a menacing black stencil of a horned demon against a tan background, no doubt the logo of the unit expecting them. By the time the flight was over I was fixating on the pattern tiny water droplets had made in the thin coating of dust on their green sides. Jet lag was setting in.

The highlight of the flight came when the cabin lights went to dim blue and the Air Force loadmaster announced that we’d just crossed over into Afghanistan, a war zone. A nervous buzz and some high-fives made their way among the soldiers even as the airman sat back in his chair and picked up the movie he had paused on his laptop to make the announcement.

A couple hours later the airman announced our decent, which was steep, ear popping and sudden. The diagonal chains running forward grew noticeably taunt while the rear ones drooped slightly. In the wee hours of the 29th we landed uneventfully at Kandahar, gathered our gear and loaded ourselves onto shuttle busses awaiting us on the tarmac. After checking in at the terminal building the soldiers went their own way and I found myself alone in what seemed a largely deserted base. Now fully jet lagged I struggled through my gear trying to find the map the NATO/ISAF media embed folks had sent me with their location marked. I needed to report in to them. Out of the dark a Canadian soldier appeared and asked if I needed help and transport and next thing I knew I had my own bus and a Filipino driver. Together we deciphered the map and located the Media Center.

The first glow of dawn was starting to stretch across the eastern sky and a couple early risers were out jogging. I humped my gear into the Media Center compound and reported to the soldier on duty. He promptly put me in a room and I immediately fell asleep. I was now into the third calendar day of travel without rest. Jet lag had me in its teeth shaking me violently side to side.

No sooner had I nodded off a knock came at my door. I had a flight to Camp Bastion in one hour. My ride to the terminal was waiting. This flight would be on an Australian C-130. It would be loud, hot and blessedly short. By noon I was stumbling off the plane, being greeted by an IMEF public affairs officer and deposited in an air conditioned tent. By now I’m wired to the gills. No idea of the date or the day. Short term memory non-existent. Can’t find a thing. Hungry and dirty.

The public affairs officer, Navy Lieutenant Caires, led me to the nearby dining facility (DFAC) and we ate. After chow he points me in the general direction of my tent and departs for a meeting. I get lost. Completely. Camp Bastion’s Leatherneck LSA is a flat expansive maze of very similar looking buildings and tents. I leave the DFAC in the right direction, but that’s about it. I know I need to find the orange port-o-johns, the only distinctive landmark near my tent. I’m five years old again and lost at the zoo.

Eventually I find my tent and fall into a coma. The next morning I’m informed I have a flight set up later in the evening for Camp Delhi, the main base for the 3rd Battalion of the 1st Marine Regiment.

Somewhat rested, I head out to explore Leatherneck and see the Marines stationed here. Just down the gravel street border by concrete barriers is the compound of 3rd LAAD. It’s here that I find my first subject, Lance Corporal Chris Baker. Baker, a native of Greenville, Michigan is tall, wiry and sports a ready smile. A turret gunner, the lines of his goggles define the pattern of dirt and sunburn on his grinning face. I draw my first portrait of this trip. He’s everything this place is-raw, dusty and full of good humor. And I find myself a little embarrassed at my complaining over recent and relatively minor discomforts. I’ll blame the jet lag.

Return to Afghanistan

I’ve been to war seven times. Tomorrow will mark the start of the eighth trip. A twelve hour flight from Dulles Airport to Kuwait International shoe-horned into an economy class seat will be followed by a shuttle bus ride out to a coalition air base called Ali Al Salem. Depending on the availability of military hops, a day or so might be spent acclimatizing to the heat and getting over jet lag while waiting on a flight to Kandahar Air Field.

My last time in Kandahar was during a frigid January in 2002. The former international airport had been blasted back to the Stone Age. Journalists and Marines spent nights sleeping on concrete floors and days huddled around a fire blazing in a dry fountain in the central courtyard of the main terminal building. Beyond great ovoid windows facing outward behind abandoned check-in counters lay the great expanse of Southern Afghanistan. The windows had the symmetry of a Mondrian painting, with the addition of bullet holes and shattered glass. With each setting sun a crazy quilt of blue and orange light would play through them across arched interior walls.

Life in and around the small coalition forces’ foothold in Kandahar was primitive. Toilets were plywood shacks open to the harsh winter wind. I met the commanding officer of the Marine Expeditionary Unit with trousers around my ankles sharing a lone roll of toilet paper. Off to one side of the ramshackle commodes was the “piss pit”, a shallow ten feet by ten feet depression in the ground filled with rocks and perpetually on fire, yes, on fire. Night time trips to the facilities meant following lines strung with blue chem lights and at least one serious stumble on bits and pieces of the blasted terminal building. Food was strictly MREs. Failing to sleep with water bottles and canteens meant you could look forward to going thirsty. You can’t drink frozen water.

Now, they tell me, the place has completely changed. Something called The Boardwalk offers civilized amenities. However, the old terminal building complex, which included a pocked marked mosque, remains much as I left it and is now fenced off. I wonder if land mines are the reason. In 2002 a day rarely passed without some unlucky guy stepping on a toe popper and losing a foot.

In 2002 I carried weapons to Afghanistan. This time no guns. I do have a good set of body armor and a new Kevlar helmet. A pair of well worn combat boots is joined by fresh pairs of hiking socks, but no guns. My gear has been packed and re-packed a dozen times. The new flak jacket, without a holster and pouches for both a pistol and rifle magazines looks strange. I had a big Velcro patch that says PRESS done up at one of the uniform shops out in Quantico town. We’ll see if it offers the same amount of protection as sixty 9mm and a hundred and eighty 5.56 full metal jacketed 55 grain NATO rounds. I once traveled with the Wall Street Journal writer Michael Phillips in Ramadi, and he had a piece of duck tape on the back of his flak with PRESS written with indelible marker in English. I asked him why it wasn’t in Arabic. His answer was quick and candid, “It’s there for the Marines”.

For the past three months I’ve spent a couple hours each afternoon at the corner gym on a stair climber in a flak jacket with a full Camelback water bladder attached. Nature’s been kind to me, but I’m eight and a half years older since last humping the wilds of Kandahar. The additional weight is about fifty pounds. Out in the field a three day pack will add another thirty or forty pounds. So, at least the battle load, without weapon and ammo, will be down to eighty pounds.

Although no longer in uniform, the hardest part of going to war remains the same; saying goodbye to loved ones and knowing my greatest passion, being a war artist, is the source of their greatest fears. My mother and daughter have been through this before, but they’re as anxious as ever. My fiancée Janis, although she’s been to war herself, is putting on a brave front, but I know she’s scared. She knows that war is far more difficult for those staying behind. Episodes of actual combat are few and far between. Those of us at war know where we are and our level of safety. Folks back home don’t and find their days and nights disturbed by constant uncertainty. Now it’s Janis’ turn to worry. I wish I had more than pat phrases to counter her fears. All I can tell her, as well as my daughter and Mom, is how much I love them, appreciate their support, and that I won’t place myself in too much danger. Unfortunately, one of those three things is a bold-faced lie.

And Now For Something Completely Different

A while back I mentioned another very talented Marine, Max Uriarte. Max has recently joined the proud ranks of former jarheads, but he's also managed to create a unique contribution to Marine Corps lore and culture. Back in January Max started a witty and biting little web cartoon called Terminal Lance. Terminal Lance has since gone viral with well over three and a half MILLION hits. Max asked me to contribute to his site and my first cartoon is up today.

This cartoon is a commentary on the Corps I first encountered in the 70s and the one Max is exiting in 2010. While the fighting elan of Marines is as constant as the Northern Star, there have been significant changes in, shall we say, the quality of recruits and the moral fiber of the Corps over the last 40 years. The days of morning formations where a quarter of your fellow devildogs are UA (unauthorized absence) and barracks hallways fragrant with the smell of pot are long gone, but senior enlisted and officers still seem to find ways to keep non-judicial punishment charge sheets coming. Like recruiting duty, there must be quotas.

At anyrate, check out my cartoon scribblings over at TERMINAL LANCE.

Something Old, Somethings New

I'm pretty close to having all my gear for the upcoming trip to Afghanistan bought and put together. Today UPS delivered the last of my required protective gear, a tan ballistic Kevlar helmet. On my feet for this trip will be a pair of well broken in desert boots and around the neck a shmeagh from my last jaunt. The ergonomic single strap bag for my art supplies and cameras is also a veteran of several campaigns.

A friend of mine, a retired Defense Intelligence Agency civilian, was kind enough to offer me his personal set of Dragon Skin body armor! I can't tell you how thrilling, and reassuring this is. Dragon Skin is the ultimate in protection from multiple threats.

Over the past month I've been going to the gym around the corner and spending a couple hours on a stair climber with my body armor on. You can imagine the questions, and looks I get.

Finally Found

Corporal Leon Salisbury, Fire Team Leader, November 2005

Back in November of 2005 I took a photo of a Marine fire team leader with 2nd Platoon, Fox Company, 2nd Battalion, 1st Marine Regiment. I had just joined this platoon for Operation Steel Curtain. I always try my best to get all the information possible from each of my portrait subjects. Many of the photos I took would be turned into drawings. There was one drawing/photo where I failed to find out who the Marine was. Thanks, in large part to Facebook, I finally know who the subject of this drawing is . . . Corporal Leon Salisbury.

A few days after photographing Leon he was severely wounded and medevaced to Germany. He, along with 11 other members of his platoon, were wounded the morning of November 16, 2005. 5 others lost their lives in a hellacious firefight in and around a "hell house". On that morning Leon's squad, led by Corporal Javier Alvarez, were assigned to two tanks supporting Fox Company for the final push through the last 100 acre pocket of Ubaydi, Iraq. When the shit hit the fan Alvarez led his squad to the aid of the squad caught in the initial contact. Dashing into the confines of a farmyard they immediately came under fire and Alvarez, in the lead, went down after being shot in both legs by a hidden mujh. Leon, and another Marine, LCpl Justin Mayfield, quickly located and closed with the insurgent who had shot Alvarez. No sooner had they eliminated that threat, a hail of hand grenades started to fall around them. Alvarez picked the one closest to them and tried to toss it back through a window, but no luck. It exploded just as he got it over the sill and into the window opening. His right hand disappeared in a red haze, but the majority of the blast was deflected away from his squad. Alvarez would get the Silver Star for his quick selfless thinking. Leon, although severely wounded by the same blast, dashed to his wounded squad leader and tried to apply a tourniquet. Leon's a little hazy as to what happened next, other than he got dinged again, and although his helmet absorbed most of whatever hit him, it pretty much knocked him out. The next thing he knew he was in Germany. He underwent 6 surgeries for his multiple wounds.

Leon shared with me how his squad leader, Alvarez, even though he himself was recovering from multiple gunshot wounds and the loss of his hand, was bringing his wounded buddies "pogey bait" from the hospital snack bar. And this was mere days after they had been medevaced to Germany.

For his actions that day Corporal Leon Salisbury was recognized with the Purple Heart and a Bronze Star with Combat "V". Leon also endured 6 surgeries to deal with his wounds.

Yesterday Leon came to Fredericksburg to visit and showed me his shattered helmet and bloody flak vest. Leon's platoon sergeant, GySgt Robert Homer, made sure his Marine would have these mementos of his heroics. Homer was recognized with a Silver Star for his actions that fateful morning. Leon was on his way from Harrisonburg to Manassas, Virginia to spend the weekend with his Mom. He's currently a junior at James Madison University majoring in international relations and Arabic.

Corporal Salisbury with his shrapnel damaged helmet and helmet cover

Getting Even Closer

4 Months into Retirement

I''ve cleared the final hurtle for going to Afghanistan as a free-lance correspondent. . .picked up my 6 month visa from the Afghan Consulate in DC last Thursday. My plan is to fly to Kuwait on or about May 23rd and then catch a military hop from Ali Al Salem Air Base into Kandahar. In Kandahar I'll check in with the NATO/ISAF Region South Public Affairs Embed Team and then, hopefully, out to Marine units in the field. I'll be in Afghanistan for the entire month of June.

Word has it that June should be a very active month in and around Kandahar City as coalition forces begin the process of "pacification".

One Step Closer....To A Bunch of Stuff

Two weeks ago I decided to send out about 100 email queries to literary agents. I started by googling "literary agents, New York", followed by literary agents for Boston, Los Angeles, San Francisco, Philadelphia and London. Most agencies prefer email queries. I found it important to read the particulars of each agency to see how and what they wanted to recieve. Most simply want a proposal. Some are interested in sample chapters. Almost all of them won't open attachments, so everything needs to be cut and pasted into the body of the email.

I recieved about 40 replies within the first two weeks. The majority of them were very short form-letter type responses. Of the 40 or so that emailed back there were 6 that enthusiastically offered representation. My co-author Don DeNevi and I have elected to go with Katie Boyle of The Veritas Literary Agency in San Francisco. Katie has placed books on both the New York Times and Times of London best-seller lists. As you can imagine I'm very excited.

On another note: I've been credentialed as a war correspondent by the Leatherneck magazine. Yesterday I recieved word from the media folks at the International Security Assistance Force in Afghanistan that I'm cleared to come over and embed with the Marines in Helmand Province. I plan on heading over as soon as I get my Afghan visa and the book deal is locked on. My plan is to use this trip as the basis for a final chapter and for the Master of Fine Arts program at the University of Hartford I'll be starting this summer.

And New Things Begin......

Well, I'm now officially retired from the Marines. Among other things this means I am no longer constrained expressing my political sentiments and opinions. So first things first, I encourage each of you to contribute, as I just did, to the Senate campaign of Scott Brown . Brown is a Lieutenant Colonel and Judge Advocate in the Massachusetts National Guard. Each of us in the US military takes a sacred oath to uphold and defend the Constitution from all enemies foreign and domestic. As an armed combatant I fought the former with my blood. Now, as an educated private citizen, I can fight the latter with my treasure. I invite each of you to consider doing the same.

All Good Things Must End

Last evening, at the National Museum of the Marine Corps, a retirement ceremony was conducted in my honor. The ceremony was hosted by my good friend Colonel Bob Oltman. Colonel Oltman was the commanding officer of 2nd Battalion of the the 1st Marine Regiment during Operation Steel Curtain. He's currently the CO of Quantico's Security Battalion. My fiance Janis did a super job of inviting everyone and overseeing a lovely reception.

What can I say...it's been a great run since I first enlisted on June 11, 1975. I signed up that day alone in the haze of a hangover and under the shadow of dropping out of a third college. Last night I departed active duty in the presence of family and a wonderful circle of friends and comrades. I was completely sober and basking in the glow of a career full of many accomplishments. Thank you Marine Corps. Thank you God. Time to move on.

Happy Birthday Marines!

Deeds, McGlothlin, Lucente, Rogers and Ware. It is almost 4 years since you gave your last full measure of devotion in Old Ubaydi, Iraq during Operation Steel Curtain. Not a day goes by that I and all your brothers in Fox Company, 2nd Battalion of the 1st Marine Regiment do not remember, mourn and celebrate your lives and sacrifice.

This weekend I am the guest of honor at the Marine Corps Birthday Celebration being conducted in McAlester, Oklahoma by the Indian Nations Detachment of the Marine Corps League. In a few short weeks I will be leaving active duty in my beloved Corps. Tonight I am returning to where my career started, Marine Barracks, McAlester Naval Ammunition Depot. Although the Barracks was disbanded in 1977 and the base transfered to the Army, there is still a small group of dedicated former jarheads who come to together each year to celebrate the birth of our Corps, to raise a glass to fallen friends, to share well worn sea stories, and to keep a small light of memory lit in a remote corner of Oklahoma in honor of unglamorous duty performed with consumate professionalism during the Cold War. Semper Fidelis.



Please enjoy the Commandant of the Marine Corps' 2009 Birthday Message